


Bright eyes and bounding heart

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: IT Fanfics [19]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Admiral Bill Denbrough, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Canon-Typical Violence, Imprisonment, M/M, Pirate Pennywise, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Torture, enemies to its complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-10-15 00:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20609735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: “G-great,” Bill stammered, feeling more than a little uneasy. “Well, I’m o-okay down h-here. You can g-go.”“You’ll die.”Bill tried to shrug, but his muscles had been rendered too stiff from the cold. “I’ll d-die faster if I c-come up th-t-there.”The pirate captain laughed. It was a high, cold laugh that brought goosebumps to Bill’s forearms. It didn’t sound quite human.It turns out there is something worse than getting captured by pirates: getting captured byghost shippirates.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: a lot of my fics are an amalgamation of book and movie verse, and this is no different.

Some of the best people suffered the worst tragedies. This was something Bill had learned early on in life as he stood before his little brother’s casket, watching as it was lowered into the earth. He had drowned on a rainy day while playing with a little paper boat Bill had made for him. His parents – people who had been nothing but good and kind – had spent much of that day weeping in each other’s arms, and the rising crescendo of his mother’s wailing was a sound Bill would never forget.

Another sound he would never forget was that of splintering wood as his ship was caved in by a cannonball. He had grown up to be a naval admiral, you see, and a flourishing one at that. He had his own fleet, one of two hundred and fifty-four ships, and had recently written up and sold a considerable number of autobiographical books. According to Stan, whose work as Intendant of the Royal Family provided him with some of the most enthralling tales Bill had ever heard, even the Queen had taken a gander at his work.

But none of those achievements mattered right now, because Bill was surrounded by tens of good, kind men – men like his parents, boys like his brother – who were falling like flies beneath a barrage of artillery. It was one ship against two; this hadn’t meant to be anything more than a retrieval of a load an ally had been forced to drop while fleeing a small French war ship. A five-hour task, at most, but they had gathered the supplies and two much larger ships had popped up on the horizon, and now here they were.

Bill watched one of his men keel over as he was impaled by a fragment of their plummeting mast. His men were scattering, leaping out of harm’s way, climbing the rails in an attempt to reach the safety of the sea. None of them were alive by the time they descended beneath the waves.

Some of the best people truly did suffer the worst tragedies.

The bombardment only ceased when his ship gave a great, shuddering groan and plunged toward the abyss of the sea. Bill raced across what little of the hull remained, hopping over dead bodies and scrambling over fallen wood. He hadn’t any plan in mind as he ran, but his self-preservation instinct compelled him to move.

His heart thundered in his chest; he could feel it in his throat, choking the breath out of him. Perhaps that was a good thing, because when he finally lost his footing and fell into the water, he forgot to inhale long enough to avoid breathing in sea water. He could feel the salt in his eyes, and ears, and nose, rubbing him raw while he scrambled to the surface of the ocean and took deep, desperate breaths. It wasn’t long before the suction of his descending ship coiled around his ankles and yanked him back under. His sodden admiral uniform made it nigh impossible to struggle. This was going to be how he died, he thought, opening his eyes long enough to see the bodies of his comrades - both alive and dead - being sucked into the vast darkness below.

Davey Jones' locker, the pirates called it. They even had a little shanti about it. He couldn’t remember how it went, mind you, but one couldn’t be expected to remember much of anything while drowning.

Black crawled at the edges of his vision. He hadn’t taken a breath for at least fifteen seconds. His lungs burned in protest, his throat convulsing around the urge to gasp in sea water in lieu of air. He thought, if he just held on long enough, he might die of suffocation instead of drowning.

The sea dragged him deeper still, drawing him away from the surface of the ocean. His limbs were turning weak and unresponsive. His thoughts came to him in fragments. He forced his eyes open again, and he could see the moon shimmering beyond the water, a beautiful stretch of silver across the rolling waves.

And then the grip slackened.

Something primordial in him forced his body into motion and he rose up in a clawing motion, as though an animal dragging itself through the viscous waters of a swamp. When he broke the surface, he took in great gasping breaths that wracked his entire body. He breathed in, and in, and in – he scarcely exhaled, desperate to fill his aching lungs with as much oxygen as possible. 

The first thing he saw when he had enough presence of mind to register his surroundings was that the French war ships were leaving. There was enough of a wind to send them sailing smoothly back the way they had come. Bill bobbed among the remnants of his ship, dizzied and fatigued, and watched them until they had receded out of sight, lost among the black of night. He wished he could have yelled something to them, some kind of insult, but he doubted they would have understood him even if he’d had the strength to do so.

After some time of floating, he found a splintered plank of wood and secured his torso around it. He held no delusions about a rescue; they had floated too far out to sea for that, but he didn’t want to descend back into the water. He didn’t want to find out the true depth of Davey Jones’ locker. If he died here, clutched to this piece of wood, he would be content with that.

He laid his cheek upon the plank and waited.

His skin turned to ice within minutes, numb beyond sensation. His eyes strung. His chest ached. He vomited, once, when his stomach decided to reveal that he had, in fact, swallowed mouthfuls of sea water, even if he hadn’t been aware of it at the time. None of those things were the worst part, though; the worst part was the complete and utter silence. It was just him and the sea. His ship was gone, and his men had gone down with it. Not a single one of them had lived. There had been people among them that Bill had known for years, people that had helped him rise in the ranks, people he had considered brothers. And now they were dead.

He didn’t think it would be long before he joined them in death. Hypothermia would claim him within a few hours.

He hoped his body was found. He hoped it was buried next to Georgie.

But even as he thought this, he felt the waters had changed. They were no longer peaceful and serene. He raised his head and he saw the source of the disturbance was a heading into the wreckage of his ship. It wasn’t a French ship, and nor did it appear to be associated with England or any of its allies. When he raised his gaze to the flag, it was red and contained no identifying image. He realised as the ship drifted closer that the red was dripping steadily down the mast. If he’d looked even closer, he was sure he would have seen it flaking in some areas and glutinous in others.

Though Bill had never seen a pirate ship that dipped their flag in blood, there was no doubt in his mind that it was a pirate ship.

He watched a group of hunched figures fish supplies and the dead out of the water. It was only when they rose into the moonlight that he saw _what_ the hunched figures were.

_Corpses_.

Living, walking corpses, muscle and bone visible through their skin, their gaunt faces grotesque and contorted. Some of them were missing extremities, others missing eyes and teeth and tongues. He could see into one’s rib cage, and there was nothing housed inside. No heart, no lungs. Nothing. The contents of its body had rotted away. The movement of them was accompanied by a soft, scuttling sound; bone rubbing against bone and dried, leathery muscles struggling to accommodate each movement. It made Bill sick to hear.

There had always been stories of ‘ghost ships’. Bill had never put any stake in them. They were tales for the superstitious, tales for children, and Bill was neither of those things. He had to blink to make sure the ship wasn’t a hallucination brought on by hypothermia (he didn’t know if hallucinating was a symptom of hypothermia, but he was willing to believe it was for the sake of his sanity), but when he opened his eyes, the figures were as vivid as ever. He could even _smell_ them.

One of them turned to peer at him with empty eye sockets. Bill’s heart plummeted. He couldn’t believe his luck. Or lack thereof, rather.

It gestured to someone Bill couldn’t see. Moments later, a man with wild ginger hair and bright orange eyes emerged from the from the darkness, his pallid, almost white skin bathed in the moonlight. His rich velvet waistcoat was the same colour as his flag – blood red, and Bill could just barely make out cream trimmings. The red tricorn hat upon his head had a great black feather sticking out the side, perhaps one dyed from a peacock. When he smiled down at Bill, there were far too many sharp, jagged teeth in its mouth.

Bill didn’t know what it was, but it _wasn’t_ human.

“Well, hello there,” It said, wiggling its white-gloved fingers in greeting.

Bill said nothing back.

“Would you like to come up?” It asked.

“F-fine d-down here,” replied Bill.

“You look cold,” the being said, sliding the rim of its hat up to better look at Bill. Its orange eyes were glittering like pennies. “Come up, Billy. _I_ can make you warm again.”

It knowing his name gave Bill pause. He supposed there could be survivor accounts of him from what few pirates had escaped the wrath of his fleet, but in the dark and sodding wet, it was a stretch to imagine he had been identified from a verbal description alone. “Have w-we met?”

“No,” said the pirate, leaning its elbows on the railing of its ship. “But who does not know of the renowned Bill Denbrough, Admiral of the British Fleet.”

“D-didn’t t-think you would be able to s-see me from u-up there.”

“These eyes-“ It tapped the side of its head. “See everything.”

“G-great,” Bill stammered, feeling more than a little uneasy. “Well, I’m o-okay down h-here. You can g-go.”

“You’ll die.”

Bill tried to shrug, but his muscles had been rendered too stiff from the cold. “I’ll d-die faster if I c-come up th-t-there.”

The pirate captain laughed. It was a high, cold laugh that brought goosebumps to Bill’s forearms. It didn’t sound quite human. “You might be more valuable to me alive, B-B-Billy boy.” It was hard to tell if It was mocking the tremouring quality of his voice or if _somehow_ it knew about his childhood stutter. “You would make fine bait,” It added, and jerked a thumb over its shoulder, at the approximate location of the port Bill had left. “They would come looking for you.”

“I r-r-refuse to go with you!” he snapped. “I’d s-s-sooner drown!”

“No need to rush to Davey Jones’ locker just yet, boy,” said the pirate. It made a gesture at It's crew, and moments later a retrieval boat slammed into the water a few feet from Bill. He almost released his plank of wood in his surprise.

Bill feebly paddled away from it. “Either e-e-execute me or l-let me d-die here! I’m n-not going to h-help you!”

“Now, don’t try to be brave.” The captain turned its head to watch its men leap over the railing of its ship. They hadn’t any regard for their well-being, plummeting into the water fast enough to incapacitate a living man. But these creatures weren’t living. They resurfaced after their violent descent without issue, reaching for him with their horribly withered fingers.

Bill screeched in disgust and let go of his makeshift buoy, allowing himself to drop beneath the gentle waves. He didn’t get far before the groping hands found him and launched him into their rescue boat. Beings so atrophied shouldn’t have had nearly so much strength, but they had strength he found impossible to oppose.

He sat shaking amidst them as the boat rose toward the deck. The scent of them, the putrid rot that wafted from their withered skin, curdled what little Bill had left in his stomach. Their naked hands had the texture of pumice.

He found himself being thrust before It before he could conceive of some plan of escape. He tried to retain some dignity by straightening himself, but he was still soaking wet, shivering, and injured, so he probably didn’t cut as imposing a figure as he would have liked. It didn’t help that this creature was unnaturally tall, standing a good two feet above him.

It smiled at him. Its teeth appeared even sharper up close

“Welcome aboard,” It said. “Welcome to Pennywise.”

Bill glanced around. The ship appeared to be old and decrepit, though it displayed none of the usual signs of weakness. No groaning or splintering, no holes or rot. It seemed as sturdy as Bill’s own ship had been. “Is t-that you or the ship?” he asked.

“There is no difference,” It replied, reaching down to stroke his cheek. The touch of its skin, even through its glove, was enough to provoke a fresh bout of shivers. Bill had never felt anything so _cold_.

“Just k-kill me,” he said, jutting his chin up defiantly. “I w-won’t help you k-kill my own m-men.”

“I would enjoy fresh meat,” It murmured. Bill could not help the way his heart skittered in fear. “But I do not oblige the demands of humans.”

He’d been right to assume it wasn’t human, then.

“Dismissed,” It said to Its crew, who released Bill and resumed their work. It gave Bill an appraising look. “Bill Denbrough,” It murmured. “It is rare for a man not to fear death. What, then, are you afraid of?”

Against his volition, Bill’s mind jumped to Georgie, to the little newspaper boat Bill had made for him being carried out of his reach by the waves and his tiny body tumbling off the pier and into the water as he made to grab it.

It had been Bill’s fault he had died.

“Ah,” It murmured, sliding a thumb over Bill’s bobbing throat. “You killed your own brother.”

Bill lost the ability to breathe, to even think. He lunged at It in an animalistic fury, walloping It across the face hard enough to hear the crack of bone. It stumbled, started to fall, and Bill continued hitting it until bony hands grasped at his flailing limbs and extracted him from their captain.

The shock on It's face gave him a rush of satisfaction. A gunky black liquid had begun to drip from the corner of its mouth.

He continued his efforts to attack It, wrenching at the hands coiled around his arms, baring his teeth in a snarl.

“If you don’t kill me, I’ll kill you!” he roared. “I’ll rip out your throat, you disgusting rat!”

The shock made way for anger. It climbed to its feet, and Bill could see great black talons growing out of its gloves, piercing the fine fabric. He’d barely the time to recognise its intentions before it had him by the throat, spitting in his face and pressing on his windpipe.

“If you want to die so badly, then die,” It snarled, and then paused. The pause went on for what felt like minutes. Finally, it took a deep, shuddering breath and shook its head. “No,” It said. It slid its claws away from his neck, into his hair, twisting them around a handful of his auburn locks. “No,” It said again, close enough that Bill could feel its breath on his face. “I do not oblige the demands of humans.”

“I made you b-bleed,” said Bill, forcing his voice calm and level. “Looked like that h-hadn’t happened before.”

Its grip tightened. A few strands of hair pulled free of his scalp. “I will return the favour,” It hissed.

“I’m n-not afraid of you,” Bill snapped back.

It loomed over him, eyes wide and unblinking, irises brilliantly lit in the stifling dark. It was several long, tense seconds before It released him, thrusting him into the waiting arms of It's crew. Bill’s head throbbed where it had been gripping.

“Put him in the brig.”

The brig turned out to be much smaller than Bill was anticipating. Six cells instead of the traditional eight for a ship of this size, and one of them was clearly being used as storage for artillery. All of them contained a bucket for excretion, and to Bill’s great relief, they didn’t appear to have been used by any previous prisoners (assuming It had kept anyone alive long enough before now for them to be classed as prisoners). He was thrown into the cell closest to the exit and locked inside. The skeletal beings ascended the stairs leading to the deck and closed the trap door, leaving him in almost complete darkness.

Bill rose onto his knees and divested himself of his jacket, folding it and setting it aside to dry. The rest of him was similarly wet, but he had no intention of sitting naked in a pirate’s brig. Or any brig, for that matter. He wanted to retain some degree of dignity.

Bill curled up in the corner of his cell and pressed his face between his knees, trying to warm himself up. He had limited success in this venture.

High above him, he could hear It barking orders.


	2. At least it's not keelhauling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry! This took a little longer to edit than anticipated, thanks to rl getting in the way. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Exhaustion from the day’s events eventually managed to lull Bill to sleep despite the terrible cold biting at every inch of his trembling skin. When he awoke from his fitful slumber, he was only able to recognise that a considerable length of time had passed from the near silence above him. They must have sailed into calm waters if the crew had ceased thumping around the deck. With little else he could do, Bill busied himself with squeezing as much water out of his clothes as possible, wringing it into the bucket he had been provided as a toilet so he wouldn’t inadvertently wet the floor of his cell. He started to hum while he worked in an effort to stave off the dread plaguing his thoughts, and this eventually evolved into him singing at the top of his lungs, hoping to catch the attention of his captor.

“The worst old brig that ever did weigh, sailed out of Harwich on a windy day,” he sang, hands fisted around a particularly sodden section of his shirt. Every time he squeezed, his singing would drop in pitch – he hoped that annoyed the beast.

“And we're waiting for the day, waiting for the day, waiting for the day that we get our pay!”

His trousers were the hardest to wring out, as they were the only item of clothing he was unwilling to remove. If he removed them and the crew came for his head, well… he didn’t much like the idea of dying without his trousers on, even if he’d soon be too dead to appreciate the humiliation of it.

“She was built in Roman time, held together with bits of twine!”

His song was deliberately chosen as a commentary on the state of It's ship. He’d never seen such a poorly maintained ship in all his life, and he’d seen quite a few dingy examples over his fourteen years of service in the Navy.

“And we're waiting for the day, waiting for the day, waiting for the day that we get our pay!”

He found himself genuinely enjoying the song, growing increasingly enthusiastic.

“The skipper's half Dutch and the mate's a Jew, the crew are fourteen men too few!”

It was on his third chorus that the hatch went crushing open and three withered crewmen approached his cell, wrenching him out while he was in the middle of pouring water from a boot. He hadn’t even the time to put said boot back on before he was being wrested up the stairs and dragged bodily through the crews empty sleeping quarters. After ascending another set of stairs, they reached a double door covered in lattice, behind which was beautiful - if dirty - stained glass.

The glare of the sun hurt his eyes. By his estimation, he must have been asleep for at least seven hours.

His boot remained clutched in his hands. The crewmen made no attempt to take it from him, which he was grateful for, because he didn’t particularly want to die with only one boot on.

“In,” It yelled from beyond the doors.

The withered men shouldered their way inside with Bill still clutched tight in their hands, dragging him into what appeared to be dining quarters. It was surprisingly modest, for a pirate. A simple wooden table was attached to the floor and two plain wooden chairs sat at either end. Junk hung on the left and right walls in such thick layers that the dark planks beneath were almost entirely obscured. There were jackets, hats, swords, guns, several admiral wigs, skulls, shoes, a rotting human hand, jars full of teeth, and dresses, and they all had one thing in common: all of them were splattered with blood. Bill realised with a shiver that they must have been mementos of It's favourite victims.

There were four tall windows at the back, covered in the same lattice as the door, and they illuminated the whole of the room and the hunched figure of It. His gaze unwillingly settled on the beast and he saw with disgust that It was eating bits of a human arm off a brass plate. Bill could see a wedding band on the hand. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to turn away.

It smiled at him, mouth dripping with an ugly mix of blood and saliva. “Take a seat.”

“I’d rather not-“ Bill began, but the crewmen pushed him into a chair and forced him to sit before he could finish.

It tore a finger off the half-consumed arm on its plate, popping it into It's mouth like a biscuit and chewing with visible pleasure. The crunch of bone being ground into fragments made Bill queasy.

“You’ve been making a racket,” It said.

“Well, aren't you observant,” said Bill dryly. He held his boot closer to himself.

It swallowed what was in its mouth. “I am considering adding your tongue to my wall.”

Bill’s teeth instinctively clamped shut.

“That wouldn’t do you any good,” It continued. “I could get my fingers around it and tear it straight out of your throat. How does that sound?”

It took a great deal of will for Bill to reply. “Fine.”

One of its eyebrows arched. “Fine?”

“Fine,” he said, shrugging. “Do it. It’ll make it h-harder for you to use me to catch the attention of my comrades.”

It gave a slow lick of its lips, examining him from the opposite side of the table. “You should be scared,” It said matter-of-factly.

“There are worse things than torture,” replied Bill. “And there are worse things than death, and one of those things would be failing my country and my men out of cowardice.”

“You already failed them,” It sneered. “Your ship is destroyed. Hundreds of lives lost. You failed as a captain.”

“Admiral,” he corrected in a mutter, wincing.

“You failed them.” It tore off another finger, pushing the digit past It's lips. “They will join my crew, now.”

Bill jerked upright in his chair. It was hard to imagine something he would have liked to hear less. “What!?”

“The dead join my crew,” It clarified. “Mindless beasts. Perfect crewmen. They have already been put to work.”

Hot anger coiled in Bill’s gut. His breaths came short and shallow and his hands curled into fists, white-knuckled and shaking. His men’s bodies were being desecrated by this hellish beast. It was disgusting, humiliating, abominable-! He couldn’t stand for it. He made to pounce at It, to finish the assault he’d started earlier, but he was forced back into his seat before he could so much as raise a fist. His boot tumbled to the floor with a thump.

It was unphased by his anger. It did watch him curiously, however, one of its eyebrows still arched.

“Damn you to hell,” he growled, helpless to do anything else except fling insults. “You’re a monster- a beast! You and your damned ship should be at the bottom of the ocean!”

“Like yours is?” It asked, sniggering. Obviously a rhetorical question.

“You’re a coward!” he shouted. “If you had an ounce of bravery in you, you would face me one on one! In fact, I demand that you face me, coward! I demand satisfaction!”

It went quiet at that, watching him and chewing slowly on It's meal. When Bill’s fury degraded into panting and shivering, It stood with It's plate in hand, crossed the room, and set it down before Bill. It leaned in close.

“You cannot make demands of me, boy. You will soon learn that.”

Bill didn’t acknowledge the plate of flesh beyond a brief glance. It was trying to intimidate him and he wouldn’t let it.

Instead of offering a verbal reply, he shot forward as hard and fast as he could, colliding with It's forehead. It went stumbling back with a grunt. Though momentarily dizzied, Bill remained aware enough to see it groaning and clutching the area he had struck.

When It recovered It's composure, raising It's head to Bill, its eyes were a deep, dangerous red. It bared its serrated teeth at him in a snarl.

“Either fight, or kill me,” said Bill. “I’ll never be scared of you, and I will never let you use me to lure my fellows here.”

It's movements were sharp and violent as it stalked over to him. It grasped him under the chin, keeping his head pinned to the backrest of the chair, and Bill thought for one simultaneously comforting and terrifying moment that finally, it’d had enough; It was going to kill him.

He closed his eyes. He was ready.

But it didn’t. It instead wrenched his mouth open and slid two fingers inside to make sure he couldn’t clamp down.

Oh, _hell_; it was going to remove his tongue just like it had threatened. Panic gripped him inside and out. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but he didn’t relish the thought of pain, and having one’s tongue extracted would be _extremely_ painful.

It stroked a talon along the flat of his tongue, seeming sickly amused by his discomfort.

“You’d let yourself choke on your own blood if I cut it out,” It murmured. It must have been reading his thoughts. That unsettled Bill even further. “I am going to be a… considerate host.”

Bill didn’t understand what it meant by that until it tore off a chunk of muscle from the arm and pushed it past Bill’s teeth, forcing it to the back of his tongue. It was like swallowing a wet, slimy copper coin one had dug out of the gutter, except indefinitely worse. Bill gagged so violently that he brought up enough bile to sear the back of his throat. Tears started to rim his eyes. The crewmen restraining his arms ensured he couldn't try to push It away.

It withdrew its fingers and forced Bill’s mouth shut by pressing one large palm over his lips and the other beneath his jaw. It tilted his head up, and Bill grimaced at the sensation of the fragment of human flesh sliding toward the back of his throat. The nausea was so great that he started to tremble.

“Swallow,” It instructed. “You will be held like this until you swallow.”

Bill would have liked to refuse, make It hold him until the sighting of a ship called It to the deck. However, it'd been less than a minute and already the urge to swallow was uncomfortably insistent. He closed his eyes, took shallow breaths through his nose, and tried to gather his thoughts. 

There was no getting out of this. It wouldn't be long before the flesh slid down into his gullet of its own accord, and resisting was only going to extend his discomfort. It would reach his stomach one way or another, and the only thing he could do about it was throw up later.

This was the thought Bill used to comfort himself as he gave the tiniest of swallows. The morsel went gliding down his throat, a sickeningly cold and wet presence that made Bill feel ill long after it had settled in his stomach.

It finally released him. An ache lingered in Bill’s jaw, but the churning in his stomach was far worse. He tried hard not to let himself vomit for fear it would make him eat the regurgitated piece of meat.

“Thirsty?” It asked, and It squeezed a portion of the arm like one would squeeze a lemon, collecting a small stream of blood in one end of the plate. Nausea prompted Bill to look away.

“No?” It let the slab of meat fall back into place and licked the remnants of slick red fluid from It's fingers. “More for me.”

“Is that all?” he asked, eager to return to the brig. An odd feeling, perhaps, but understandable considering the circumstances. The cold dark was better by far than being anywhere near this deranged creature.

“No.” It returned to It's end of the table, bringing its meal with It. The removal of the plate seemed a small, if not deliberate mercy. “Should you sing again,” It said quietly. “It will be at My request.”

Bill had no intention of singing once back in the brig. He wasn’t nearly stubborn enough to chance being force-fed human meat again. The satisfaction of provoking It wasn’t worth the misery.

That didn’t mean he had to respond to It's demand, however. He stared straight ahead, a little to It's left, silent and expressionless, and thought of nothing but returning to the lovely dark of the brig, where he could vomit up the contents of his stomach and then sleep until he forgot this whole ordeal.

“Oh, no. No brig for you, Little Buddy,” It said, and Bill snapped out of his reverie with a wince. Reading his thoughts _again_. It chuckled at this display. “You’ll be on deck, _cleaning_. You can get the filth out of the boards, since it bothers you so.”

Bill supposed it wouldn’t be all that bad to be put to work. The sun would dry his clothes and drive away the chill that had burrowed beneath his skin. He didn’t relish the thought of working among animated corpses, but they wouldn’t be too difficult to ignore provided he kept his eyes firmly on his feet. They didn’t appear to have the capacity for speech, so he wouldn’t have to worry about them engaging him in conversation.

And if he was discreet, he could probably vomit over the railing. Perhaps even try jumping.

“Get him a broom,” It said, resuming Its meal. “And make him put his shoe back on.”

Those withered hands with which Bill had become so familiar dragged him out of his chair and back onto the deck, where they proceeded to snatch a sodden mop out of the hands of a comrade and shove it into Bill’s. The wooden pole was slimy and covered in fuzzy spots of mould. This was why _his_ crew had always been made to put their cleaning items away after use.

It was shortly after he began a sweeping motion across the floorboards that one of the crewmen approached him with his boot. Or rather, knelt before him and forced it onto his foot like he was a toddler (though even toddlers were expected to start putting on their own shoes after a certain age).

The moment it released his foot, he scuttled over to a quieter area of the deck and began to clean there.

A few times he ventured over to the railing, close enough that he could have vomited or perhaps jumped, but he didn’t manage to try either of those things before the crew advanced on him. After having one of them physically wrench him to the middle of the deck, he ceased attempting to sidle up to the edge of the ship. He knew if he tried to jump, or even just vomit, he wouldn’t succeed, and he didn’t want to find out how It would punish him for his behaviour. Make him eat a foot, probably. He decided to vomit into a hand instead, discreetly throwing the sick into a nearby bucket before returning to work.

The sun beat down on his back while he worked. He was glad for the high collar of his shirt, knowing he would end up sunburned on all visible skin. It had been some years since he’d been required to stand under the sun for long periods of time. He’d thought he had left that behind along with his days as a junior seaman.

How little water he’d had in the past two days became uncomfortably apparent when all moisture slowly vacated his mouth. His tongue turned heavy and sticky and his throat scratchy. He peered up in search of rain clouds and found only blue sky.

Considering the captains feeding habits, there likely wasn’t any water on this ship. Not any water Bill could drink, in any case. Even the water he was using to clean the deck was provided by the sea.

The number of crew mates on the deck dwindled and Bill continued to clean. The ship drifted past land and Bill continued to clean. The sun descended and turned the sky a dazzling pink and Bill continued to clean. Darkness fell, and still he was left on the deck and made to clean while two crewmen trailed after him. He’d actually managed to scrub away a considerable layer of grime, but it was at the cost of every ounce of energy he had. He was practically using his broom as a third leg by the time It emerged from It's cabin.

It grinned upon seeing him, probably finding his condition highly amusing. Bill would have liked to shove the handle of his mop down It's throat and see if it would still be smiling after that.

“Back to the brig with you.”

Bill obeyed its instructions only because he desperately needed to lie down. He descended the steps into the sleeping quarters (none of the crewmen were sleeping, mind you; they seemed content to sit in small clusters in quiet corners), dropped through the hatch, and entered his cell. The moment he was inside, his knees buckled and he flopped into his jacket – still damp – and used it to soothe his sunburned cheeks.

* * *

Bill awoke to the chill of water falling over him. He scrambled briefly, thinking himself drowning, trapped beneath the waves just like his little brother had been, just like his poor crew had been, before remembering where he was. When he glanced up, there was just enough light peering in from the sleeping quarters to enable him to see the haggard features of an eyeless crewman wielding a now-empty bucket. Despite its lack of eyes, it didn’t appear to have any trouble navigating into Bill’s cell and hauling him out by his shirt.

Unsurprisingly, he ended up back in the dining room. It was feasting on what appeared to be still-beating organs, this time. Where It had gotten them on such short notice, Bill didn’t want to know. He must’ve slept through something awful.

“Sing,” It said, and Bill stared at it.

“What?”

“Sing for me.” It spoke between mouthfuls of something slimy and pink that burst between its teeth. “Sing something chipper, Little Buddy.”

Bill swallowed. “What happens if I refuse?”

Its mouth stretched into a broad smile. Bill gathered that to mean ‘something bad’.

“I thought you disliked my singing,” he said, trying to forestall his humiliation.

“I dislike it when it is not asked for,” It replied. “Sing.”

“A-anything in particular?” God, stuttering again, and this time he hadn’t the excuse of wet clothes. 

It seemed to take no notice. “No. Start singing.”

Bill took a deep breath to prepare himself. His throat was painfully dry. It was going to be hard to keep a tune. “As I rolled out one morning-!”

“Not that one.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want anything in particular.”

It grunted. “Choose something else.”

Bill rolled his eyes, but complied. “Safe and sound at home again, let the waters roar, Jack,” he sang, and this time It began to tap its long talons on the table to the beat. It ate while he sang, tearing into bits of slippery red organ, swallowing some whole. The liquids that dribbled down Its chin weren’t all blood. Bill grimaced when he realised that, but continued singing at an even tempo.

Each word dried his throat further, to the point that he broke into haggard coughs on the final verse and was unable to reach the songs conclusion. The coughing only made it worse, turning his throat raw instead of just dry.

It frowned at him in disapproval.

“That’s not how it ends.”

_Obviously_, thought Bill snappishly.

“What’s wrong with you?” It asked.

“You had me working all day yesterday in the sun,” he answered, his voice hoarse. “And I haven’t had anything to drink.”

“You should have said something,” the beast said, much to Bill’s annoyance. It had made it quite clear It didn’t take demands from humans.

It vacated its chair to start sorting through the contents of its wall. It flicked shoes and dresses aside, dug past an assortment of jars attached to pieces of string, and withdrew a dark green bottle. The bottle was placed on the table, within Bill’s reach. 

There was a small amount of something sloshing around the bottom.

“Drink.” It tore out the worn cork and nudged the bottle closer. “Drink, then sing.”

Had Bill enough moisture in his mouth left to do so, he probably would have salivated. He didn’t even know what the liquid was and he still wanted to drink it. At this point, even sea water was looking good.

He drew the bottle closer, giving the funnel a sniff. The smell was something like rotten wood and alcohol, with a hint of molasses – not exactly appetising. He nevertheless brought it to his mouth and swallowed the contents in three large gulps. The relief to his tongue, throat and palate was wonderful and immediate; it drove away the dry, sticky discomfort and enabled him to wet his chapped lips. He didn’t even care that it had been among the worst tasting things he’d ever put in his mouth.

He put the bottle aside – but not too far from him. The sharpness of the alcohol had shocked enough cognisance back into Bill for a plan of attack to occur to him. If he smashed the bottle, he could use it to stab the beast. He would just have to wait until It stepped into his vicinity again. If a couple of hits with his fists had damaged it, imagine what a glass shard would do.

Once he'd concocted a plan of attack, he was quick to direct his thoughts elsewhere. It wouldn't be much of a plan if It plucked it out of his head like it had other thoughts, though reading someones mind appeared to require some concentration on It's part. He hoped It wasn’t concentrating right now.

When he looked up to check, It had returned to the other side of the table and was pulling what appeared to be a human heart into bloody sections. If it could hear Bill’s frenzied thoughts, It gave no sign of that.

“Sing,” It said, without looking at him.

Bill started the song again and It resumed tapping its talon on the table. Bill followed it with the ever popular ‘Drunken Sailor’, and then ‘The Coast of High Barbary’, which was a personal favourite of Bill’s. He rather enjoyed the story it told of some sailor’s bloody victory over slimy, scheming pirates. That was the only end pirates deserved, in Bill’s opinion. They were vermin that fattened themselves on other peoples hard work because they were too lazy and vapid to make an honest life for themselves.

He supposed that standard didn’t apply to It, however, as It wouldn’t have fit in with normal society no matter how hard it tried. With teeth as sharp as blades and eyes that shone with an arcane power, It would have been deemed an abomination and ostracised, perhaps even hunted.

It didn’t request that he continue, so Bill sat quietly while It ate what remained on It's plate. It was the same brass one from before. Bill had to wonder if It ever bothered cleaning its cutlery; probably not. Disease from unsanitary eating habits didn’t seem to be something It had to worry about. It could probably eat out of a toilet and be perfectly fine.

“You sing well, Little Buddy,” It said, finally looking up at him. Bill wasn’t much enjoying the nickname. He was neither little nor its buddy. It paused, and said, “Little Bird,” and Bill like that even less.

“I received lessons as a boy,” he mumbled.

“To help with the stuttering. Yes, I know,” said the beast. Bill frowned. That wasn’t something he’d wanted to divulge. “Perhaps I will keep you around as my personal songbird.”

Bill snorted. “You didn’t figure out I needed water until I told you. I think we’re both aware I’m too high maintenance for you.”

“Nothing is beyond Me,” It said, It's voice firm, almost affronted. “Humans are simple creatures with short, sad lives; it would not be hard to maintain one of you.”

“You’re not going to be maintaining a-anything.” Bill crossed his arms, eyeing his bottle. He wished It would hurry up and get over here so he could impale it on a shard of glass. Even if he didn’t manage to kill it, it would be such a stress reliever. “I’m not a pet,” he finished, glowering.

“You’re whatever I want you to be.” It was growing increasingly frustrated.

“You can’t make me be anything,” he snapped back. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Stop saying that,” It growled, leaning out of It's chair. It's talons dug into the surface of the table. It was a touch unsettling how easily the wood gave beneath them. “You will be afraid of me!”

“What does it matter?” he shouted back. “What does it matter if I’m afraid of you? You could kill me with ease regardless of whether I’m afraid of you or not!” He spread his arms, inviting attack. There would still be time to smash the bottle were it to come lunging across the table. “Is using me as bait worth the hassle of keeping me alive? I’m sure there’s enough prey out there without using me as a lure!”

It's pale lips pursed.

“Well?” he pressed. He didn’t understand why It didn’t move. “Am I really that valuable?”

Still no response.

“Answer me,” he snarled, rising to his feet, vexed by It's lack of response.

It finally stood, the floorboards creaking under It's significant weight. Even from the opposite side of the table, It appeared to loom over Bill, it's shadow stretching across the room to smother him.

“You are,” It said slowly. “_Infuriating_.”

“New experience for you?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was pouting now, rather like a child. “I don’t like it.”

“You’d best get used to it if you’re going to keep me around.”

“You have quite the death wish,” It said, and it didn’t sound at all happy about it.

“That seems to be more frustrating for you than one would expect of someone keeping me alive voluntarily.” He hesitated, examining It's placid features. It hadn’t blinked in well over a minute. “Do you… do you _need_ fear?”

It said nothing, creeping around the edge of the table.

That dawning realisation gave Bill a rush of adrenaline. He didn’t even wait for It to reach him; he smashed the bottle upon the edge of the table and brandished it at the beast, earning himself a delectable little pause. It was nervous. It had likely never encountered such opposition before.

“You do need it, don’t you.” He shoved his chair out of the way with the heel of his shoe, gaze following It as it came ever closer. It wouldn’t be long before It was within striking distance. “That’s why you’re so fixated on fear,” he breathed. “You’re powerless without it.”

“I give you drink,” It said slowly. “And this is how you repay me.”

“It tasted like shit,” he spat.

“Ungrateful brat.”

“Whoremaster.”

It regarded him hatefully. If looks could kill…

There weren’t more than a few feet between them now. One more step and Bill would be able to embed the bottle into something soft and vulnerable. It's neck perhaps, or its eye socket. Both would be agonising for It.

“You will not succeed in killing me.” It looked pointedly at the jagged end of the bottle. Bill was sure he wasn’t imagining the nervousness in its gaze. “And there will be much to pay upon failure.”

“I’m willing to take that r-risk.”

It took that final step. Bill launched himself at It, his weapon making a graceful arc over their heads and coming to a jarring stop once half-way into the pale stretch of its neck. The sound it made in response was inhuman, more of a roar than a yell. It slammed its forearm into Bill’s chest hard enough to wind him, sending him slamming to the floor. He was still struggling to regain his breath when it tore the bottle out of its flesh and tossed it across the room, far out of Bill’s reach, and turned on him, radiating a fury so thick that it was almost palpable.

Bill scrambled back on his elbows to put distance between him and the furious, hulking beast. It hadn't been lying when it said it wouldn't die as a result of any wounds Bill inflicted, evidently. He wondered with dread if it could even _be_ killed.

The floorboards groaned as It advanced on him. The wound in It's neck seeped a strange, black fluid that drifted in wisps into the air, disappearing before they could reach the ceiling. Bill was privately glad for this, for it meant It didn’t drip onto Bill when It hunched over him, holding his wrists above his head with one large, clawed hand. The other caught him under the chin and forced him to look into It's eyes.

Bill breathed hard, his heaving pectorals straining against the fabric of his shirt. Panic sent his pulse thudding. It might not be able to kill him, but it could certainly make him _wish_ for it- more so than he already was.

Strangely, It didn’t do anything, merely watched him while he struggled to maintain some degree of composure.

“Are you – are you waiting for something?” he asked, quiet in his breathlessness.

It stroked a thumb over the corner of his mouth, a frown marring its brow. A droplet of saliva landed on Bill’s chin and slid down the slope of his neck.

“Trying to think of a suitable punishment,” It rumbled. It was unlikely It had ever _needed_ to punish someone before, mindless as It's crew were, and it seemed lost as to what to do, what would be suitable. Effective.

Bill wetted his lips. “Well, you don’t _h-have _to punish me," he said, and he knew full well it was a stupid thing to say, because _of course_ It was going to punish him regardless, but he wasn't in the position to put much thought behind the things coming out of his mouth.

“Yes, I do.” It gave his throat a warning squeeze. “A few days on the mast ought to teach you some respect,” It decided, picking him up off the floor and heaving him out onto the deck. It proceeded to have It's men tie him to the mast with thick, itchy rope around his wrists and ankles. The rope on his wrists were pulled onto a hook so he was forced to hug the mast and stand on the toes of his boots.

This was not a punishment with which Bill was unfamiliar. As a rambunctious young sailor, he’d been punished by a superior officer for wandering off to dinner before the end of his watch with a full day on the mast. That had been the one and only time he had been punished for misconduct. It had been a long, hot day, and even with his mates offering him water, shelter, and conversation, it had been a terrible one.

He could already feel the sun tearing past his defences to warm his already tender skin.

He cast a sideward look at It.

“You will be let down when you beg for my forgiveness.”

And with that, It left him to swelter under the hot mid-morning sun.

Bill leaned his forehead against the mast, which was currently warmer than his skin. He didn’t expect that to last. Days on the sea were unforgivingly torrid and Bill knew he would be feeling the effects of the heat bearing down on his back within minutes of being tied up. It certainly didn’t help that he was tied up in such a way that he couldn’t even adjust his position to stand in the shade, though he supposed he ought to be grateful It hadn’t whipped him before hanging him up like a piece of meat. Bill had never before been subjected to the nine-o-tails and he had no intention of finding out how painful it was.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he started to droop, his knees buckling beneath his exhausted, dehydrated, starving body, leaving his arms stretched out above him as all his weight was distributed to the hook on the mast. Flies buzzed around him in hungry hoards, gathering on his sweaty neck and scalp and wiggling beneath the collar of his shirt, but Bill was helpless to wave them away.

The rotting crewmen did little throughout the day, performing small, menial maintenance tasks while Bill hung. Someone had taken over mopping the ship, though they did a mediocre job at it at best. Sometimes they peered at him, as though curious, but they never did so for long. Bill suspected they’d been instructed to keep an eye on him.

His mouth and throat dried out again. When he tried to swallow, it was like shoving sand down his oesophagus. He licked his lips and his tongue was so dry that it did nothing to soothe the chapped skin.

It came out to see him twice, standing off to the side expectantly. Bill kept his mouth firmly shut. After a few seconds, It returned to It's cabin.

Night fell. Bill’s hands started to turn a faint blue from a lack of circulation. Staring up at them seemed too great an effort, so Bill pressed his cheek to the mast and closed his eyes, trying for some rest. It came to him fitfully and it was hard to tell if he was sleeping or falling unconscious for short periods.

He wasn’t able to will himself to stand the following day. He didn’t even look at It when It emerged from its cabin, keeping his face pressed to the cool wood of the mast. There was still some lingering chill from the night.

He thought, idly, that he was probably dying, and wouldn’t that be ironic considering It's threat to keep him alive as a pet. In his mad spite, he found himself hoping that it would happen soon, that it would hold his corpse and know It had failed to deprive him of his pride. The hot days and chilly nights made it impossible to think sensibly.

It was partway through the third day that Bill collapsed entirely, unresponsive even when the crew poked and prodded at his still form. His final thought was that he didn’t feel so bad anymore. In fact, he felt quite good, if very tired.


	3. A teaching moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here's something I haven't updated in a while! Sorry about that.

Bill didn’t have the strength to open his eyes. He was faintly aware of a sluggish, drifting consciousness and could feel something soft and wet being pressed to his mouth, squeezing liquid into his parched throat. It took all his remaining strength to suck feebly at the precious liquid and swallow it down. It soothed the horrible heat in his throat. Only momentarily, but when it returned, it wasn’t quite as terrible as before. The cloth withdrew and Bill let himself drift back into unfeeling oblivion.

When next he reached consciousness, he’d recovered enough strength to peel open his aching eyes. As the front of his unbuttoned shirt was patchy with liquid, he must have been given water recently. He took in that he was lying in a very comfortable, if old and musty bed and let his head droop to the side, getting a look at his surroundings.

This wasn’t unlike the sleeping quarters of his own ship. Heinously unused, he gathered from the dust, but it was large and lavish and had intricately designed wardrobes and bookcases secured to the walls. A wide, redwood desk sat before three tall windows that formed a rough crescent. It was hunched over said desk, gnawing on the end of a talon while flicking through the pages of a dog-eared book. It was the first he’d seen It without Its hat and coat, which sat in a messy pile on the floor. Somehow its shoulders appeared broader without it.

Bill moaned. He was too weak to produce words.

It came to sit at his side, pressing a wet cloth to his mouth. “Foolish, stubborn brat,” It muttered while he sucked in mouthfuls of wonderful, revitalising water. He didn’t know where It’d gotten it from and he didn’t care; his dehydration pushed out all thought except that of needing to drink.

“I should have left you to die,” It said, withdrawing the cloth and dipping it into a nearby brass basin.

Bill wanted to ask why It hadn’t, but was distracted from this question by the wet cloth returning to his lips. He continued drinking.

“What were you hoping to accomplish?” It muttered, quiet enough that Bill suspected it neither wanted nor expected an answer. “You did nothing more than make yourself _weaker_.”

It wiped stray droplets from his chin. Bill belatedly noticed he was lying in bed in naught but his shirt and underwear and attempted to summon some indignation. He found himself unable to do so. That was too much effort for something as unremarkable as being half naked in front of another- well… It seemed to be a man, though he couldn’t say for sure if that gender was reflected in anything but surface appearance.

Once he’d had his fill of water, he closed his eyes and let his head lull to the side, uninterested in anything except returning to slumber. A palm glided down his sternum and across the flat stretch of his belly. Bill didn’t mind. The heat seemed to have become infused with his skin and Its skin radiated an enticing chill.

“You are a strange one, Little Buddy,” It rumbled. Its hand returned to his face, this time sliding up into his hair and scratching at his scalp, petting him like one would a cat. “I believe I will keep you alive. Keep_ you_.” Bill was drifting, drifting away. In his final moments of consciousness, he heard, “I’ve been reading how.”

* * *

Water and rest went a long way in relieving Bill of his exhaustion. He was still fatigued and desperately hungry, but he was able to sit up in bed and drink unassisted the next time he regained consciousness. In his drowsy state, it was only when he went to throw his legs over the side of the mattress that he noticed a shackle on his ankle, securing him to a leg of the bed. This wouldn’t have been a problem, except the bed had been built into the floor, so there was no means for escape without a key.

He perched himself on the edge of the bed and brought his foot onto the mattress, trying to wiggle his fingers beneath the shackle. The metal clasps were pressed snugly to his skin. No matter how much he struggled, there was no way he would be able to wiggle his way to freedom. It was at times like these that he wished he knew how to pick a lock.

He stood to see how far it would enable him to walk and found himself jarred back after three steps. Barely any distance at all. He then gave it a firm tug to see if he could splinter the wood, succeeding only in hurting his ankle. The next thing he tried was reaching for the captain’s desk, hoping to locate something to break the shackle with, and found that it was just that little bit too far for him to reach. Everything else was similarly out of his reach. The beast had put more thought into his restraints than Bill had anticipated.

Defeated, Bill lowered himself back onto the bed. It had left a basin of water for him on the floor, covered in leather so the contents wouldn’t spill out should the ship roam into active waters. Bill lifted it into his lap and took three big gulps. He wasn’t thirsty anymore, but it eased the gnawing hunger in his belly.

All there was left for Bill to do was wait, and so he did, busying himself with picking his nails and listening for approaching footsteps. If he strained, he could hear people roaming above him and the occasional thud, but there wasn’t a great deal he could do with those observations. 

He tried going back to sleep a few times and found he was too rested to do so. Irritated by this, Bill threw the blankets off the bed and lay down on his side, staring sulkily at the door.

It seemed hours – and perhaps _was_ hours – before It came striding inside with a bowl clutched in its hands. It approached the bed and heaved Bill upright with one hand, shoving the bowl into his lap. The contents of it was cold.

“Eat,” It instructed.

Bill looked down. It was some sort of watery soup with hardtack inside to give it body.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Soup and biscuits,” It said, leaving him to sit down at It's desk. It flicked through the same book it had earlier. “Common sailor food.”

Bill dipped a finger into the soup. It felt slimy. He hoped it wasn’t made of person. “What is the soup?”

“Bird.”

Bill wrinkled his nose. He was accustomed to receiving pea, fish, and the occasional beef soup. “That’s disgusting.”

It grunted, glancing at him from under its wide-brimmed hat. “Be grateful, brat. There was nothing else available from your _generous benefactors_.”

“I hope you didn’t kill someone for this.”

It didn’t reply. Bill gathered that to mean that It had.

He was hungry enough to take a tentative bite of the hardtack. Though the soup was cold and had a base of bird, it was surprisingly tasty. The hardtack, however, was predictably tough and chewy. While sailing, Bill had often crushed his hardtack ration with a cannonball and left it to soak in whatever broth they were being served that evening so it would be edible. No one ate hardtack straight, not if they valued their teeth. The toughness of hardtack was so notorious that sailors would often sing songs about the very subject.

He took another bite, then set the hardtack back in the bowl to soften it further. He gave a couple of sips at the soup before deciding any more would leave the hardtack inedible. Placing the bowl aside, Bill frowned across the room at It, who had started picking its jagged teeth and flicking through the pages of its book.

“What is that?” he asked, gesturing to the dogeared, leather-bound book.

“You ask too many questions.”

“What is it?” he asked again, with greater force.

It made an exasperated sound. “Medical journal.”

“Medical journal?” Bill spluttered. “What’s a thing like you doing with a medical journal? Surely you have no use for it.”

“It’s a guide,” It said, turning in its seat. A long, heavy sword that hadn’t been there earlier hung from a holster on its hip. “To looking after you.”

“What?” His gaze snapped back to It's face.

“I said-“

“I know what you said,” Bill snapped. “I’m just surprised, alright? And pretty angry, too. I’m not a pet. I believe I already told you that.”

“And I ignored you.” It closed the book. “Don’t expect me to do anything _more_ than that, Little Buddy.”

Bill hiss through his teeth. If that damned beast thought Bill would ever submit to being a slave, It was quite mistaken. He would sooner let himself starve and be feasted upon by the gulls. That would be more dignifying than being this creatures ‘songbird’.

It seemed to sense his dismay, as It gestured to the shackles and added, “Those are temporary.”

Bill regarded it with suspicion. “Are you going to put me back in the brig?”

“As much as you deserve it,” It began dryly. “No. You will make yourself useful, Little Buddy. No one on my ship gets a free ride.”

“I thought you wanted me to sing?”

“I have no need for a bard at all hours.” It stood and approached a cabinet attached to the wall. Upon being opened, a flurry of clothes, trinkets, and trash spilled out onto the floor, which It ignored in favour of selecting a shirt, underwear, a brown vest, and matching brown trousers. The ensemble was much less formal than anything Bill would usually wear while out at sea.

It threw the clothes onto the bed, watching Bill expectantly. Bill arched an eyebrow at It. “I’m not undressing in front of you.”

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before. I have even tasted that odd fleshy part between-”

“Okay,” interrupted Bill, raising his hands. “Message received. Just turn around so I can dress.” As an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

“You humans fluster over such odd things,” the beast mumbled. It returned to its chair and sat facing the wall.

Bill hastily shed his dirty clothes to pull on the clean set, keeping his eyes on It all the while, making sure It didn’t turn around and spot him in a compromising position.

Which… was exactly what happened, It's head snapping around to face him. Bill made a series of disbelieving choking sounds and covered his crotch with the pants he had yet to put on.

“Are you done?”

“Wha- are you- are you serious? Do I _look_ done?” he cried, red-faced, the tips of his ears burning with shame. “I’m obviously not!”

It regarded him with half-lidded eyes. “You should have moved faster if you didn’t want me to see.”

“I’m moving as fast as I can!”

“Slow,” It said, and finally turned back to the wall.

Bill started to push his underwear and trousers further down his leg before it occurred to him that he wouldn’t be able to get them over the shackle. Giving a low, miserable moan, he resumed covering himself.

“I n-need the shackle off.”

It tittered. “Indeed you do.”

“…Well?”

“Ask nicely.”

Bill let out an even more miserable moan and shuffled from foot to foot, skin developing goosebumps in the cold of the room. It had done this to him deliberately. He just knew it had.

“Fine. _Please_ may I have the s-shackle off so I can p-put on my pants?”

It rose to oblige his request, shuffling over and retrieving a key from its pocket as it knelt. Bill looked elsewhere while it unlocked his bindings. He didn’t particularly want to acknowledge their close proximity while he had no trousers on. It was terribly embarrassing. Had he had his underwear on, he might have tried striking It in the face.

“You know,” It murmured, grasping Bill by the ankle and sliding it free of the shackle. “You stutter when you’re nervous.”

“Do I really?” said Bill wryly. “I d-didn’t notice. Considering I’m the o-one speaking the words, you’d think I w-would have.”

“No need to get cheeky, boy.” The beast released his ankle, sliding a hand up his calf in an appraising manner, and then withdrew. Bill shivered. Whatever was going through It's head as it examined Bill, it couldn’t be good.

It stood and unholstered its newly acquired sword. The fine hairs on his legs rose as It stroked the cool tip along his ankle. “If you try anything…“ The blade nicked the skin and Bill gasped. A tiny rivulet of blood dribbled onto the floorboards. “I’ll hang you by the mast without your clothes.”

Bill swallowed. His ears were burning at the mere thought. “Aye aye, captain.”

It smiled, unveiling its serrated teeth. “Good boy. Now get dressed and eat your food.”

There didn’t seem to be much point in being stubborn, given what would happen if he refused. It would only earn him further humiliation.

Once It had turned away, Bill tore on the fresh underwear and trousers, then buttoned his shirt and sat back down on the bed, reaching for his meal. He was famished – he’d started to eat even before It had put the shackle back on, chewing ravenously on the now softened hardtack. It quelled the beast in his belly a little, though he would need something more substantial than soup before he actually felt full.

Slurping up what remained of the soup, Bill set the empty bowl aside and wiped his lips dry with the back of his hand. It had returned to It's seat, watching him, It's forearms draped over Its bony knees. Bill could just barely see the orange of It's irises beneath the rim of Its hat. It was strange how brightly they glowed under shadow, like ambers rising from a fire.

He looked down at himself to see if there was anything of interest worth staring at. When he didn’t find anything, he resumed looking at It, who had yet to blink.

“Are you waiting for something?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably.

“Your uses are being considered,” the beast rumbled, speaking from somewhere low in its throat. “Ship maintenance, perhaps.”

“Ship maintenance?” Bill had been under the impression this was some sort of ‘ghost ship’, and ghost ships weren’t supposed to deteriorate. “Your ship isn’t self-maintaining?”

“I thought that was implied.”

“I know. I’m just… surprised.”

“This ship will never completely decay, but that does not mean it doesn’t need maintenance to look the marvel that it is and to function smoothly.” Strangely, It didn’t move as It spoke. It went through the motions of human communication, but the body language was off-kilter, too still, like a marionette being guided into speech. It was a queer thing for one to notice. “You,” It continued, pointing a finger at Bill. “Are going to clean and repair this ship.”

“It seems perfectly functional to me.”

“It is functional. Not ‘perfectly’ functional.” It gazed fondly at their surroundings. “Close to perfect, though it may be.”

“Why did you name it Pennywise?” asked Bill, because he didn’t think such a ridiculous name could ever be applied to something ‘perfect’.

“You don’t like it?” the beast asked. “It’s our name.”

“’Pennywise’ doesn’t sound like a real name. It sounds like what someone might call a court jester.”

“Those are just called ‘court jesters’,” It grunted. “I have another name.”

“If its anything like ‘Pennywise’, I’m not interested in hearing it. I’ll never use it.”

“Robert.”

“Oh.” That was surprisingly normal. Quite common, actually. Bill knew a great many Robert’s. “Why Robert?”

“Commoner name. Puts people at ease when I want them to board my ship.” It grinned, showing off its rows of jagged teeth. “It’s generally a _short_ visit.”

At the implication, Bill retracted in disgust. “We were _almost_ having a normal conversation and you just had to go and ruin it.”

“I’ve no interest in indulging you in normal conversation,” It said.

“Why, then, are you still here?” asked Bill.

It's smile dropped from its face, its pale skin creasing at the brow. “This is _my_ cabin.”

“As far as I can tell, you don’t need to sleep.” At least, he’d never _seen_ It slumber, and given that this was some kind of ghost ship, it only made sense for the captain to be in a state of perpetual wakefulness.

It's frown deepened. “That does not mean I’m not allowed to make use of _my_ cabin. You are a guest here.”

“I thought I was a permanent resident?”

It's lips pulled back in a snarl. “Don’t get clever. I haven’t the patience for it.”

“Fine.” Bill wasn’t in the mood for witticisms, anyway. He was still sore from his time on the mast. His neck had been thoroughly sunburned. “When do I start working?” he asked, leaning down to wet his hands in the basin and slap them onto his reddened skin. The water did little to soothe the burns.

It canted It's head. “You want to work?”

“I want to not be stuck in here,” said Bill, giving his restraint a tug for emphasis. It was demeaning, being chained to It's bed like this. It was no position for an admiral to be in. And besides, he couldn’t make any escape attempts while shackled. Making himself useful would give him more opportunities.

It quirked a lip, leaning an elbow on the table. “Tomorrow. For now, you rest.”

“I’ve done enough resting.”

“Do some more,” It said simply, returning to its reading.

Bill didn’t see the conversation going anywhere, should he press, so he lay back down in bed and closed his eyes, trying for some sleep. It would probably be hours before he managed to drift off. Not only was he already well rested, but his growling, still hungry stomach was keeping him awake more so than it was making him drowsy, and he didn’t expect that to change until he’d digested the hardtack. That wouldn’t be for hours.

He leaned over the edge of the mattress and swallowed a few more mouthfuls of water to see if that would make his stomach feel a little less empty. It did quell the hunger a little, though not by much. With a sigh, he lay back down and curled his knees up to his chest, holding them loosely in his arms.

This was going to be a very long, boring day.

If not for the soft hiss of turning pages, Bill would have thought himself alone. If It breathed, it did so in complete silence, and if it moved, it wasn’t enough to be heard over the creaking of the ship.

Bill adjusted his position every few minutes over what must have been the span of an hour. With his periodic sighs and the drum of his fingers on the bed frame, he was probably a difficult presence to ignore. It came as no surprise to Bill when It pressed a hiss past its clenched teeth and leapt out of Its chair, storming across the room and over to the cabinet. 

“What’re you doing-?” he started, but he didn’t manage to finish before it had withdrawn a dog-eared book from within a drawer and thrown it at Bill’s face. The book very nearly broke his nose when it struck.

He jerked back with a yelp of pain, prevented from going far by the shackle around his ankle.

“Did you have to do that!?” he cried, wiping a smudge of blood off his left nostril. That would probably bruise.

“Yes,” It said, sounding and looking deeply satisfied. “Read that and stop _moving_.”

Bill scowled. Or at least tried to. The ache in his nose prevented him from holding the expression for long.

Sniffing, he lifted the book he’d been given and turned it over in his hands, attention diverted to the strange, lumpy texture of the cover. Leather, clearly, but it must have been wet at some point to leave it so distorted. Hopefully the text inside wouldn’t be illegible. He didn’t expect It to be generous enough to dig him out a different book if it was. He would have to make do with what entertainment this one provided.

Fortunately, as he peeled open the pages, the text was a little smudged in some areas, yes, but not entirely unreadable. It must not have been completely submerged in water, then. Books could rarely be salvaged after getting wet.

It was a book about birds. Not his favourite subject, perhaps, but he’d spent enough time around an enthusiast – Stan Uris – to have some appreciation for the content. It would at least be enough to keep his mind occupied until he could sleep. Or preferably, until It deigned to feed him again.

He thought about home as he read about the exotic birds that occupied the skies of England. He thought about Richie, Stan, Beverly, Mike, Eddie, and Ben; his Losers. That was the little nickname they had given their club in their youth. They’d never been popular among the other children and thus they had gravitated toward each other. Bill loved them all deeply. They had been the one bright spot in his otherwise miserable childhood (miserable from the age of eleven and beyond, that was; they had all been quite happy before Georgie’s death).

It’d been days since his disappearance. The Losers probably thought him dead. Maybe they would throw a funeral for him despite the lack of a body. He wouldn’t have wanted that even if he had been dead, truth be told, but Stan would insist upon it because Stan always liked to do the ‘proper’ thing.

He felt a surge of guilt for his willingness to die, thinking of his friends’ grief. He knew better than anyone how loss could ruin a person completely and irrevocably. Perhaps he shouldn’t be running for the grim reaper with such eagerness… and what good would it do anyone for him to die? He was perhaps one of the few with knowledge of It. If he escaped, he could return to England, gather a fleet, and send It to the depths of the ocean. Granted, that required an escape attempt, and his hopes weren’t high on that front, but to submit to death was the _easy_ way out.

He’d read a paragraph about quails three times. Giving himself a shake, he turned the page and focused his attention on a different section of writing.

Thinking of his friends just made him homesick – something he hadn’t been since his novice years. He banished them to the back of his mind and thought instead of the contents of the book and how alluring another bowl of cold bird soup was starting to sound.

* * *

He must have fallen into a doze while reading, as he was jarred into awareness by the thunk of something landing on the bedside table. When he turned his head, he found a fresh bowl sitting ready for him. Inside were oats with bits of dried fruit, as well as two bits of hardtack. There mere smell of the oatmeal made Bill’s mouth water. It was a meal most Englishmen regarded as only being fit for horses and the Scottish, but Bill had never thought something looked more appetising in his entire life.

They must have encountered a Scottish trade ship if this was to be his meal. Salivating, Bill tore the bowl off the bedside table and into his lap, digging in with his fingers. A little barbaric, perhaps, but he hadn’t been provided a spoon, so he couldn’t perform the usual civilities.

He heard It chuckle. “My, my, not looking much like an admiral now, are you Little Buddy.”

Bill ignored It, continuing to shovel food into his gullet. It was warm, surprisingly. It had to have been prepared recently.

He only slowed when the speed of which he swallowed made him faintly nauseous. 

“I thought you could use something more filling,” the beast continued, leaning against the wall to watch him eat.

Bill swallowed a mouthful of soggy oats. “You made this?”

It blinked at him, seeming surprised. “Where else would it have come from?”

“Thought you might have stolen it off someone’s table,” said Bill, picking a stray oat out from between his teeth.

“Are you trying to say you don’t appreciate it?”

“Oh, no. I do.” He hated to make the admission, but he didn’t want to discourage It from providing him food. Hunger was an awful pain.

He gnawed on the end of a piece of hardtack. It was much too tough to be properly eaten, but he could still chew at it.

“I’m just surprised,” he continued. “Considering the kind of hospitality you’ve shown me thus far, I thought you’d be giving me cold bird soup again.”

“You need food for strength, and strength to maintain my ship,” It replied in a rumble. The suggestion that it had done something for Bill out of pure kindness seemed to have rendered it off-kilter.

Bill placed the bowl aside, having finished most of the contents. He would save the rest for later, just in case it hadn’t occurred to It that he needed more than one meal a day in order to subsist.

“Fine.” He licked his lips. “Will I be starting soon?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“That’s what I said.”

Bill glanced at his bound ankle, stifling any hint of hope in his expression. “Well… I’m going to need to be released from this room and be allowed to look at your maintenance supplies.”

Offering no reply, It stooped down at the end of the bed and freed his leg, allowing him to rise and give the limb a testing stretch. It was a little sore from the snugness of his restraints, but otherwise fine. Nothing that would hinder him. The burns on the other hand- well, he was going to need to keep to the shade, should he be made to do manual work today. He didn’t want to end up with sunburn on his sunburn.

When he crossed the room to rifle through the contents of the wardrobe, It didn’t try to stop him. He took that as indication It wouldn’t mind if he borrowed a coat. Nothing too heavy; just a little something to shield him from the sun. Assuming it was sunny out. The cabin windows had been covered by curtains and the room was lit only by a lantern sitting on It's desk.

He discarded the vest in favour of a thin blue coat with gold trimmings and looked to It for further instruction. Though he’d been an Admiral for some years, it was easy to fall back into the habits he’d had as a young sailor.

It gestured to the exit. “You first, Little Buddy.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Bill to try and attack it when it turned its back on him. He was getting complacent. He didn’t like that. However, he was tired, and sore, and still pretty hungry, so he would behave for just today.

He passed through the double doors and It followed suit, walking at his heels. It's shadow fell over him, tall and dark as they entered the dining room and stepped through to the deck. It made him feel very small to be smothered in that things shadow.

When they descended into the cargo hold and were met with a couple of brooms, buckets, and scrub brushes, it became apparent Bill wasn’t going to be able to perform any real maintenance on the ship. What meagre supplies were available to him wouldn’t so much as fix a couple of broken planks. What did It expect him to do – clean the ship into full functionality? That seemed the case, since It had guided him into a room full of cleaning supplies and nothing else.

He cast a frown over his shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?”

It regarded him quizzically. “No?”

“I mean,” he began, exasperated. “There’s nothing here I can use to fix anything! I can’t even scrape the crap off the bottom of the ship with what you have here. This is just plain incompetence.”

“Maybe I’ll keelhauling you for your insolence,” It said wryly. “You’ll surely get some of it off while down there!”

Bill snorted. “It just figures that punishments are the only part of sea life you’re familiar with.”

As per usual, It seemed dismayed by his lack of fear. After staring at him for a few long seconds, it finally spoke again. “What do you need, then?”

“Tools to scrape away the life attached to the bottom of the ship,” said Bill. The ship was swift despite the state of the hull, but he figured the ship being beached would provide him an opportunity to slip away. “For a start, I mean. You’re going to need a lot more than just that. You need lead and tar to ensure shipworms don’t ruin the wood, if it isn’t already ruined. I noticed some damage on the outside, so some sections will need to be removed and replaced, and-“

“Write a list,” It said dismissively, already herding him back up the stairs.

“I haven’t even told you where you can get these things!”

“Passing ships should be adequately stocked.”

“There won’t be enough,” Bill protested. “We need to buy in bulk. Do you have the money for that?” He attempted to wrestle himself out of It's grip and succeeded only in making It's grip tighter. It continued hauling him up the steps. “I can walk without your ‘assistance’.”

It ignored his complaint. “There is coin among the cargo.”

“How much?”

“I never had any need to know.” They paused just before the landing. “You will count them.” And back down the stairs they went. It's harried movements left Bill momentarily airborne, and if not for It's grip on his arm, he probably would have made a violent descent back into the cargo. He hesitated to be grateful toward It for preventing grievous injury since it was It's manhandling that had sent him flying in the first place.

Bill obligingly reached for crates containing coin and was stunned to find hundreds, if not thousands of guineas. He’d never seen this much money in one place, not even during the time he’d ventured into Richie’s vault to gather coin from the man. The beast released him and he dug his hands into the coins just to feel what it was like to have them spill between your fingers. It was a surprisingly satisfying sensation.

“Why do you even have this much?” he murmured, stunned.

“I thought it’d come in use should I run out of cannonballs or mortar,” It answered. “But other ships have kept my weapons adequately stocked.”

Bill swallowed. “You have more than enough here without needing to count.”

“Count anyway,” It said, pressing him closer to the crates. “It’ll give you something to do while we sail.”

“Sail?” he glanced over his shoulder. “Are we headed back to England?” he asked hopefully. “Because if you leave your ship some ways away and accompany me there in a rowboat, I would be able to lead you directly to-“

It barked a laugh. “I’m not stupid, Little Buddy. You’re never going back to England.”

“You won’t receive reliable supplies elsewhere.”

“We’ll visit every pirate haven in the seas, if need be.” It waved a finger at him. “You are _not_ going home.”

Bill’s shoulders slumped. Well, it had been worth a shot.

“Get counting,” the beast instructed. It started ascending the steps. “We sail for New Providence.”

Bill had only ever heard stories about New Providence. According to the brave few among his peers that had ventured into New Providence, the place had been absolutely filthy, with scantily clad strumpets and drunken men lining the cobblestone streets and the dead gathering in piles on corners. There were – or so his peers had claimed - a few heads on pikes to warn those entering that it was pirate territory. Pirates led revolting lives, full of sin and indulgence. Bill didn’t particularly want to find out how accurate the descriptions he’d heard were.

They would scent him out as an intruder. He was too neat and tidy, too clean. They would spy his cropped hair and white teeth and immaculate nails and know something was amiss. He didn’t look the part of a pirate. It would be some weeks before he did. He wouldn’t even be able to grow a beard to cover up the boyish quality of his face.

Without It needing to utter a word, a crewman descended the steps and joined Bill in counting the coin. He suspected they were not truly there to help, however, but to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t do anything rash.

The grate closed on him and his companion before Bill could voice his concerns to It. There was just enough light peering in through the cracks to enable Bill to see what he was doing. With a sigh, he lowered himself to the edge of one of the crates and began to count the cool, golden coins inside. Bill was by no means a greedy person, but he had to admit, it felt pretty good to dip his hands into a crate almost overflowing with guineas. Now, if only they had a tin bath so he could tell people – should he ever manage to escape – that he’d bathed in a pirate’s riches.

The crewman It had sent down was surprisingly helpful, holding out its withered hands to take coins he finished counting and place them in a different, empty crate. Going the speed they were, they might even be able to finish by nightfall.

The ship creaked and groaned in a manner suggesting they were in the process of changing course. Full speed ahead to Pirate Hellhole, thought Bill dourly. He hoped if It insisted on dragging him all the way into town, he would at least be allowed a small weapon. A dagger perhaps. Should one of the pirates try to accost him, as they were wont to do, he wanted to be able to defend himself, though he suspected no amount of convincing would be enough to make It give him a weapon.

Bill was on the five hundredth and forty-sixth coin by the time the sun fell, depriving them of the means to continue. They could have tried, he supposed, but there was no guarantee the counting would be accurate if they did it in the dark. He abandoned his companion to thump on the exit hatch. It took a good five minutes of thudding away for someone to finally let them out.

He stepped into the chilly night time air and shivered, drawing his vest tight around himself. He didn’t manage to take more than a few steps before he was being led across the deck and into the eating quarters.

It was waiting for him, naturally.

Bill was pleased to find a hot meal of chicken and vegetables waiting for him. As he lowered himself into his seat, a goblet was placed by his hand, smelling faintly of spice and fermented grapes. He didn’t know how It had managed to prepare a hot meal for him (did it know how to cook, or had one of the crewmen done it?), but he didn’t care. He coiled his fingers around an oily hunk of flesh and took a bite, chewing noisily, disregarding all the social niceties he’d been taught as a boy in his desperate hunger.

It watched him eat from the opposite side of the table, taking the occasional bite out of what appeared to be a human calf. Uncooked, as per usual. Bill didn’t watch for long. If he let his gaze linger, he’d be put off his food.

He was so distracted with picking apart his chicken that he only noticed that It had vacated It's chair when It came to stand at his side. Jerking upright, he hastily swallowed his mouthful of chicken and wiped his greasy fingers off on his trousers, casting It a nervous look.

“What?”

“You like the food.” It was a statement, not a question. Bill frowned.

“A-are you going to tell me there’s something wrong with it?” The chicken had certainly smelt, felt, and tasted like chicken, but the queer way It was looking at him didn’t inspire confidence.

“No.” It topped up Bill’s goblet and grasped it by its stem, pushing it closer to Bill. “Try the wine.”

Bill swallowed. “Did you do something to it?”

“So many accusations.” The beast clucked It's tongue. “No, I did not. Try it.” A pause, and it added: “Or I’ll pour it down your throat.”

Bill hesitantly extended a hand to accept the goblet of wine. He brought the rim to his lips and took a tiny sip of the red inside, finding it pleasantly sweet and tasty. When he went to read the label on the bottle the wine had come from, he recognised the letters as being French. He might’ve spat it to his feet out of anti-French sentiment (the French was at war with his homeland, after all), but _damn_, it was good. Better than any other wines he’d tasted.

“Didn’t take you for a sommelier,” he said dryly, taking another swig from the goblet. The liquid rushed down his throat and warmed his belly.

It leaned an elbow on the table in a strangely _human_ fashion. A few ginger hairs had escaped from under Its tricorn hat, which It ignored. “It was suggested by the captain of the ship my crew recently boarded.” When It smiled, Bill noticed blood smudged on It's teeth. “They’re in the brig, currently.”

“They’re alive?”

“I never said that.”

Bill shivered. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Giving me food and wine, I mean.”

“You ask ‘why’ too much.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were f-forthright.”

It grunted. “You would die without sustenance.” It caught Bill’s goblet by the stem and guided it back to his lips. He took a tentative sip, brow knitting as he watched It watch him. “And these nice things will help you _assimilate_.”

He took the goblet from It's fingers. “You’ll get tired and throw me overboard, eventually.”

“Wishful thinking.”

“You think drowning is wishful thinking?” Bill snorted. “I’d much rather think you would send me home, to my friends and family.”

“No,” It said quietly. “You would much rather think I don’t intend to keep you here, forever, until you forget the life you used to have.”

Bill inhaled sharply. Hands trembling, he tipped the contents of the goblet into his mouth and swallowed until only dregs remained, then licked the remnants off his lips. It mimicked the display, licking its own lips with its long, slimy tongue. It was almost obscene to witness and Bill felt compelled to divert his gaze. 

“I can smell the fear on you, Little Buddy.”

Bill poured himself a fresh pint of wine.

“Then kill me,” he said simply.

It grunted. “We’re back to this.”

“We wouldn't have to come back to this if you weren't such a bastard.”

It didn’t respond the way Bill expected It to, smiling instead of frowning. It refilled his goblet. “More wine?” It asked. "More than this?"

Bill frowned, confused, but nodded.

It left the room, and when it returned, it was with two fresh bottles. Bill hastened to finish what remained in his goblet. Drinking had two benefits: he could evade conversation with It while his mouth was full, and if he got blitzed, he could forget his uniquely awful circumstances.

The next wine he was introduced to was even better than the last, less sour and delightfully nutty. The French might have been yellow bellied toads, but their wine was unmatched in quality. He would have drunk this in lieu of water for the rest of his life had they had enough in stock… which, upon further thought, wouldn’t be hard to achieve, given how short his life would be once they reached New Providence.

After polishing off his third goblet of wine, he started to slur. Conversation came to him far easier now that he was inebriated. He spoke of home, of his friends and family, of his work colleagues and his superiors (he referred to one as a scoundrel and milksop and nervously glanced around after doing so, as though expecting them to make an appearance). It listened, offering little reply beyond grunts and nods.

“Why’re you a pirate, anyway?” he asked after spilling half of his current goblet onto his knee. He made a vague attempt to remove his trousers, which seemed like a good idea until he reached his belt, which refused to loosen despite his best efforts.

It regarded him with bemusement. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Why be a pirate when you could do something easier?” he tried instead. “It just seems like a lot of work when you could just, I ‘unno, sit in a sewer and drag people into it.”

“I enjoy this.”

“You like the sea?”

“Yes.”

“The sea is beautiful,” Bill agreed, abandoning his belt to resume drinking his wine. He had to be careful not to slosh it down his chin. His hand-eye coordination was bad enough that he was periodically pressing the rim of his goblet to his chin instead of his lips. “D-dangerous too,” he added, smiling lopsidedly. “I used to be t-terrified of it, as a kid. It was like a big monster that could swallow things and they would never return. Just lost down there, somewhere, in the endless dark.” He paused. “I thought about that dark a lot, about – about-“

“Georgie didn’t like the dark,” It said, and Bill paused for even longer, examining It over the rim of his goblet.

Georgie used to come to him at night. Bill always called him a baby, told him boys his age shouldn’t go running to their big brothers when they were scared, that they should suck it up, but he never denied Georgie a spot under his covers. He had often slept with Georgie tucked under his chin, Georgie’s soft breaths warming Bill’s sternum and his tiny hands settled between their bodies, curled loosely. He’d always fallen asleep fast when he had been with Bill. Bill had chased all the monsters away.

Sometimes Bill had been afraid of the dark too, but he had been brave for Georgie. Georgie had always made him feel so much older, and wiser, and stronger than he actually was. Even now, decades after his brother’s death, he still drew strength from that brief period of being a big brother. He had faced his fear and conquered the sea because that was what Georgie would have wanted him to do.

“I’ve had too much wine,” he said at last, taking another sip regardless.

“You’ve had just enough, if you ask me.”

“Well, I wasn’t asking you.”

It laughed. “Ever the witty one, Little Buddy.” It gently drew the goblet out his fingers, placing it aside. Bill made no attempt to stop It. There was barely anything left in there except dregs, anyway. “Time for you to sleep.”

“’M not tired.”

“Oh yes, you are,” It said, and inexplicably, Bill felt a wave of fatigue descend on him. He hadn’t the energy to resist when It guided him out of his chair and pulled him in the direction of It's cabin. He was grateful not to be sent back to the brig despite being well enough to forgo regular medical intervention.

He was sat down on the edge of It's cot and It's hands dropped to his wrists, coiling around them. The grip was loose. He could have dislodged easily, had he wanted to extract himself and go to sleep. But he didn’t move, because he was confused and terribly curious about why It was staring down at him, unblinking and unmoving.

The ship swayed. Being rocked from side to side was a comfortable sensation. Some people found it difficult to sleep on a ship for that very reason, but Bill had never had that issue. The gentle rocking and hiss of waves lulled him to sleep like a baby in a cradle.

When It leaned down, Its tricorn hat smacked Bill in the forehead. He laughed and It scowled, throwing it aside with a violent shake of It's head.

“What’re you trying to do-?” he began to ask, only to have his words swallowed up by It's mouth clamping down over his.

It's mouth was cold and It's tongue long, slick, and tasting faintly of blood. Whatever it was doing to him, it didn’t feel like a kiss. Felt more like more like the licking and sucking of a hungry animal. He didn’t reciprocate, carefully dislodging and pressing It back with his palms flat on It's chest.

“I’m too drunk to be angry with you, but… wow.” He wiped a forearm across his lips. “That was shit. I almost feel bad for you.”

It's expression narrowed. “It was not bad.”

“It was,” slurred Bill. “The amount of tongue was abominable. What was that- your first kiss?”

It fell immediately silent, much to Bill’s delight.

“Oh, shit, it was, wasn’t it?”

“You should be grateful a being like myself wants to kiss you at all,” It snapped back, baring It's gums and teeth at him. Far too many teeth. Bill was sure It hadn’t had that many just a moment ago.

“Not grateful,” said Bill, his tone wry. “Just confused. You’re a hard, uh… guy? To pin down.”

“Meaning?”

“Just can’t figure out why you’d want to kiss me.”

“Nor can I,” the beast admitted, starting to withdraw. Bill pulled It back before It could make an escape.

“Wait.” He cradled It's face in his fingers, grinning toothily. “C-can’t let you go without showing you a proper kiss. S’my… responsibility…”

It balked. “_What_?”

“This is how…” Showing was better than explaining, and he was sure It would agree.

He closed the space between them and ran his tongue along It's bottom lip, delighting in its softness, and then bit It's lips open, sliding his tongue over It's incisors before darting inside. It was breathing in low, growling pants when he finally withdrew and turned his head to the side, proceeding to vomit onto the floorboards.

It swore under It's breath. A few of the words It utilised were in a language Bill didn’t understand.

He lowered himself to the mattress and groaned, curling his knees up to his chest. That was the most wine he’d had in one sitting. He knew, vaguely, that he would feel like hell come morning.

It was still swearing when It guided him into drinking a cup of water and cleaned his mouth with a damp cloth. He tried to mumble his gratitude, only to snap his teeth shut around the urge to gag.

It didn’t take him long to fall into a deep slumber. When he awoke the next morning, he faintly recalled the kiss, but had managed to convince himself that it had been a rather confusing dream when It neglected to approach him about it.


End file.
